


Don't Wanna Dance With Nobody (But You)

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (a little plot), (by my standards), (very little), Bottom!Yondu, Dancing, Drinking, Frottage, Grinding, Groping, M/M, Peter attempting to flirt, Porn With Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter wants to party. Kraglin wants to lure Yondu off-ship. Yondu wants to not get arrested.</p><p>And for once, everyone gets what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Wanna Dance With Nobody (But You)

**Author's Note:**

> **I WAS PROCRASTINATING AND SUDDENLY PORN**

Finding somewhere nobody knows them (or at least, nobody knows Yondu) is a rarity nowadays. A lot of words are used to describe the Ravager captain among polite circles, ‘notorious’, ‘despicable’, and ‘utterly terrifying’ being the most common. (Among less polite circles, the sentiments remain much the same, albeit amplified by incalculable profanities.)

Yondu appreciates this. Really, he does. Mostly because his reputation as a wily, dangerous a-hole who’d as soon double your rates as shoot you in the eye for touching one of his dashboard ornaments in-flight, makes dealing with clients infinitely more amusing. All Yondu has to do is sprawl in a backlit chair and whistle to himself while Kraglin’s doing the negotiating, and the contractor’ll be too busy trying not to piss themselves to notice when he starts ratcheting the price up.

There’s one single redeeming note on a rap-sheet as long as the _Eclector_ broad: a scrawl printed across the bottom left corner in some Nova Officer’s untidy hand. _Yondu always delivers._ And indeed, for as long as he’s been captain, there’s only been one exception.

That exception has just docked his first M-ship, and is determined to get him and Kraglin tossed in the Kyln before nightfall.

“No,” says Yondu. Grabs his plate and raps on the hatch to request a bottle of rotgut, ignores pet Terran and first mate alike as he waits for it to come rattling down, sticks it in his deepest trench pocket, and marches out.

Usually, that would be that. But then there’s a patter of feet. Or a clump of boots, really; Peter’s practically full grown now (although he still needs to fill out a bit around the shoulders). Keeping the kid alive long enough to fit his own clothes is an achievement in itself, so there ain’t no way Yondu’ll admit he _misses_ the trot of oversized, sock-padded shoes, which used to rattle after him down the gangways.

The closer these steps get, the more distinct they sound. Yondu realises he’s hearing not two sets, but four.

Rolling his eyes, he turns and is met with Kraglin’s unrepentant puppy-dog plead. His face is too skinny to pull it off; he looks like a squeezed goldfish. Yondu tells him so, substituting ‘goldfish’ with some obscure Hraxian subspecies that Kraglin’ll be able to place. Then he repeats his verdict, loud enough to sink into both of their skulls – which are only semi-permeable at the best of times – and keeps fucking walking.

Clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp.

“But _boss_ ,” Kraglin wheedles. Kraglin should never wheedle. Kraglin wheedling is like watching a praying-mantis trying to be cute. Yondu sighs again, noisily, and pins him with a glare.

“What?”

Kraglin may be more accustomed to his posturing than most, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect him. He wilts – but the encouraging prod from Peter is rejuvenating. “It’ll be fun?” he tries. Yondu shuts him down with a snort.

“It’ll be stupid, that’s what it’ll be,” he corrects. Continues his passage, thinking he’s made his position clear.

Clomp-clomp, clomp-clomp. Fuck. He’s never gonna reach his cabin at this pace.

“But _why?_ ” Kraglin again. Peter at least is smart enough to know that his input’s gonna have Yondu clamming up tighter than a virgin’s ass. How he’s cajoled Kraglin into talking for him – or what he’s bribed him with – Yondu’s got no clue. Still, if he hangs around much longer in the No Man’s Land of the _Eclector_ ’s interlocking tunnel-system, someone’s gonna fuck up and need him to deal with it, and then he’ll have to eat his dinner cold. Not the most appetizing prospect. Yondu stomps onwards with enough force to have the floor-grates bouncing in their moulds.

“Why’re you wantin’ to go to one of them places anyway?” he retorts. “S’all upper crust a-holes and Xandarian brats trawlin’ the galaxy to ‘find themselves’. Ain’t no one we’d know there.”

Kraglin _beams._ “Exactly!”

And damn it, but this isn’t what Yondu’d planned. He’d told Kraglin to do something with the kid to celebrate, stop him getting uppity – bread and circuses, that sorta thing. But he’d been thinking more a private celebration in the _Eclector_ ’s bowels, fuelled by Shorro’s home-brewed moonshine and far, far away from undercover Nova enforcers. And he certainly hadn’t expected to get invited. Or wanted to.

Sure, crew don’t let captain put a crimp in their style when they’re partying – and Yondu wouldn’t give a shit if they did. They wanna act like prissy Nova recruits while he’s in the room, standing and saluting and all that bollocks? That’s their own idiot loss. But rolling around drunk with a bunch of your men ain’t so fun when you’ve been mutinied on more times than you have fingers. He can’t whistle when he’s sloshed. And if that becomes public knowledge, and if Yondu gets drunk with his crew more than once in a blue moon… Enough said. So he’ll remember the old days of horrifying bar owners from here to Knowhere with fondness, and get pissed either with Kraglin or on his lonesome. Fuck everyone else; he don’t need ‘em.

His room’s up the corridor on the right. Yondu’s pace picks up, just a little. “I said no,” he snaps. Then smacks his palm on the lock release and storms in, setting his plate down on the single clean patch of desk remaining. He hears the door slam behind him.

Anyone else, and that’d be the end of matters.

Anyone else, and they wouldn’t be bio-coded to access his quarters at any hour of the day or night.

Kraglin just rolls his eyes at Peter and shoves the door open. “Can we go, at least?” he asks, from the doorway. He’s not dumb enough to march on in uninvited, and Yondu supposes opening doors and loitering ain’t _technically_ an arrow-worthy infraction. He kicks off his boots, sits cross-legged on the bed, grabs his plate and tucks in.

“Do what you want,” he grunts between lukewarm mouthfuls. “But I ain’t comin’.”

Peter opens his mouth to protest but is silenced by an elbow, inserted between his ribs with clinical precision. Yondu pretends he’s not watching, although he kinda wants to know how Kraglin does that without looking. He’s tried, but recently Peter’s been shooting up like a spring weed and Yondu keeps forgetting how tall he is and bashing him in the gut.

“Alright captain,” says Kraglin. “Have fun here. Alone.” And he grabs Peter by the collar and hustles him off. The door whooshes shut with a swirl of recirculated air. Yondu scoffs into his spoon, and fishes out the booze. Fuck Kraglin. He’s perfectly capable of entertaining himself…

A sniff of the bottle has him screwing up his face. It’ll be enough to blindside him if he gets the whole thing down, that’s for sure. And… and when did ‘fun’ become drinking himself into a stupor without company?

Yondu sighs and recorks it. He tosses it between the pillows for later. That’s okay. There’s plenty more stuff he can do. He can… scan the comms receivers for new jobs. Trawl the underworld of the Nova infonet for potential clients. _Sure_ , he’s already got trusted folks covering both, folks that are due, under pain of death, to report everything to him when they find it. No self-serving missions in a Ravager fleet. But it’s always good to drop in. Keep ‘em on their toes, right? If not that, there’s that nearby station that Horuz’s been sent to scope. They’re due to leave in fifteen – more than enough time for Yondu to announce he’ll be joining them for as an impromptu and wholly unnecessary one-man-army of back-up.

Work, work, work.

Yondu loves his job. He’ll happily crush kneecaps and liberate items of significant monetary worth until the sun comes up. But everyone needs a change from schedule once in a while, and Yondu’s gotta admit that guzzling moonshine alone ain’t the way to go.

Guzzling ridiculous overpriced Nova cocktails with Kraglin and Peter though…

He shakes the thought away. No. Nope. He’s too old to be hanging out with them anyway; even on the offchance no one recognises him, it’ll just look weird. And _yeah_ , the kid deserves a reward for not mashing his ship into the _Eclector_ and putting her aft shield generator outta commission again, and _yeah_ , Yondu’d been perfectly happy to grant it – but he hadn’t realised that that reward was gonna be interpreted as a free pass to demand his company, or that Peter would look so darn disappointed when he denied it.

And he is not getting soft. No fucking way.

Y’know what? He’s gonna forget all this. He’s gonna let ‘em have their fun – down a few glasses, fuck a few girls. He’s gonna dump his tray back at mess, check the Bridge, maybe tidy his cabin a little…

Yondu sits bolt upright. He’s thinking about _tidying his cabin._

Fuck, he needs to get outta here.

He springs upright, sticky plate clattering to the floor. He can make Peter clean it next time he does something stupid – which, knowing Peter, is likely to be tonight. After a moment’s deliberation, he unpins the belts that hold the iconic red leather coat closed and dumps it on his bed. Then kicks the wall until a rail unfolds, swinging with what few other clothes he owns. There’s a coupla iterations of his usual outfit (because Yondu ain’t the most inventive, and why fix it if it’s not broke? That, and clothes have a terrible tendency to get shredded in his line of work, and even the most shameless Ravager knows to keep spares stowed somewhere secure so they don’t have to traipse over to the quartermaster in their undies). Then a short red leather jacket with a ribbed frontispiece that he’d thought looked really cool when he was still a junior, a couple of thermal-lined tops for when they’re working on ice planets or the life support’s gone offline again, and some scarves for when Kraglin gets nippy (which he always does, no matter how many times Yondu scolds him). And – jackpot! – a black pullover top with a hood.

Wherever they end up, it’s likely to wind up crowded and sweaty by the end of the night, and booze warms him up like nothing else. So Yondu yanks off his shirts too, ripping into the buckles and straps with aggravation. Why’s he even have all this paraphernalia crap? Oh yeah. Because it pisses Kraglin off when he tells him to undress him, that’s why.

Rolling up the hoodie, he rearranges the arrow holster so it can be strapped underneath. With the belts around his chest and the arrow flat between his shoulder-blades, it’s the most inconspicuous it’s gonna get – and there’s no way Yondu’s leaving without it. Alright. That’ll get him past Nova security, so long as the scan-blocker on his wristpiece’s still working.

Yondu tugs the hood over his implant and comms Kraglin. It buzzes a moment longer than usual – Yondu figures that if he’s already left, it’s meant to be and he might as well go fetch that bottle before it leaks on his pillowcase. Then Kraglin’s face buzzes into view, looking far too pleased with himself. Yondu realises that he hasn’t thought out any clever and mildly insulting way of declaring that he’s coming too – and that from the looks of the fuzzy M-ship interior visible over Kraglin’s shoulder, they’re all set up and waiting for his call.

He _hates_ being predictable. “Uh –“

“We’re in Hanger D,” Kraglin tells him.

But then again, he figures, Kraglin’s the only one who dares try. Yondu nods and, in the second between switching off the comm and unlocking his door, allows himself to grin.

***

The club, as anticipated, is one of those lame-ass Nova-run affairs. No one deals dubious substances – or if they are, they do it subtle-like, from booths round the back and toilet cubicles, rather than in the middle of the dance floor. It’s past midnight and Yondu’d bet not a single fight’s broken out. The _bouncers_ look bored.

He scopes the Nova agents immediately. There’s three of them, each with a decent-sized hole cut around them: one at the bar, one at the tables, one making a passable attempt at dancing. He sees Kraglin’s eyes flick over them too, and nudges Peter before the boy can make a beeline for the bar.

“ _Think_ , idiot. Use yer eyes a bit first.” That’s all the hinting Peter’s allowed; ain’t Yondu’s job to spell it out for him. Peter scrunches up his face rebelliously, but obeys. Yondu keeps his grip on his sleeve – kid’s been smart enough to strip his Ravager-reds, at least – and counts the seconds before Peter realises.

“Four of them,” he breathes. What? Yondu frowns; checks again – kid’s right, there’s another Nova operative just exiting the bogs, a lass staving off the attentions of a boy way too handsome for anyone not on a job to turn down.

“Yup,” he says, like he knew all along. “Watch yourself.” Peter’d flown the M-ship here as well, wanting to show off his piloting skills – and Yondu, grudgingly, had to admit that the kid was good. Half-decent, at least. He drew the line at Kraglin, who had chirpily declared that at this rate Peter’d be flying circles around Yondu in a year.

He’s not a bad pilot, dammit.

But yeah. The brat had done well. Yondu’d only had to hold onto his seatbelt once, which was a fair sight less often than he had too when Kraglin was at the joystick and Horuz co-piloting – those two would spend the whole flight ribbing each other loudly and incessantly, while seeing how many consecutive barrel rolls they could pull off. Peter deserves a drink, if only because Yondu walked out of the ship capable of imbibing alcohol without instantly seeing it again. He gives the Terran’s hair a good ruffle, hooks his arm around his neck and turns him to the bar. “C’mon, let’s get on with this…”

Five minutes later, he’s winged Peter off on a pretty young Xandarian who kept fluttering her eyes at him until she realised that Yondu was trying to introduce his ‘friend’. Peter’s entertaining her with stories of past conquests – job-wise, not bed-wise; thank fuck, kid ain’t that dumb. All are highly exaggerated. Yondu’s tempted to swan over and regale her with the actual version of events. But she’s listening with massive eyes, drinking every word, so he figures they’re stupid enough for each other. He taps a message to Peter’s comm anyway, just to annoy him – _didn’t u miss that gig b.cuz u got spaceflu? Liar_ – to which Peter taps back _ur the one who gave it to me_ , which is just ludicrous, because Yondu might’ve been a bit _snuffly,_ but he likes to think that his constitution’s a bit tougher than that of a measly Terran.

Terran-cross.

Terran-crossed-with-whatever-Peter’s-daddy-is.

Alien genes aside though, Peter’s got the alcohol tolerance of a seventeen-year-old boy. A seventeen-year-old Ravager, admittedly – but still not all that impressive. He fucks it up with moon-eyes when he downs his shot too fast and starts coughing, spitting fluorescent orange liquor all over her pretty white camisole. Yondu, watching from a table in the corner, activates the comm and laughs loud enough to make Peter spill the rest down his front.

Kraglin’s on the other side of the table, already at the bottom of his first glass – he’s paying for his own, and they’re taking it in turns to fork out for Peter, because Yondu might have cultivated the faintest whiff of fondness for them but he’s still a stingy bastard at heart. From the way his knee jigs, he’s getting antsy.

“C’mon,” he says, leg bouncing against Yondu’s. “Let’s go do something.”

Yondu shakes his head, grinning. “You kidding? The kid’s a damn soap opera. I could watch this all day.”

Kraglin’s leg bobs harder. “Yeah, but if he gets bored of gettin’ rejected, he’s gonna come start pesterin’ _us_.” That’s… a point. Yondu sure as hell ain’t gonna waste his evening hanging out with some sad sack of a Terran who can’t get himself laid.

”C’mon then,” he grumbles, giving Kraglin a shove to get him out from round the table. “Let’s dance.” Hopefully, Peter won’t be able to spot them if they’re hidden in a crowd. Kraglin ain’t a crowd guy, so it’s surprising that he hops up so enthusiastically.

“Alright!” Yondu figures he’s got extra energy to burn. He shrugs, drains his glass and leads the way. Kraglin sticks close to his back, as usual, and pushes Yondu’s hood forwards when it starts to slip. “That’s gonna be a bugger to keep up.”

“Yeah, well I don’t plan on throwin’ no flips or nothing.” Yondu ain’t a bad dancer, no matter what Peter says. But this crush of people ain’t his thing. It suits Kraglin though, despite his wary side-eyes at the people from all corners of the Nova Empire who press on every side in a thriving, heaving mass of colours from pink through yellow; he needs the extra compression to stop his gangly limbs flailing every-which-way. Yondu grabs his wrist to stop them drifting apart, and elbows through the chaos, his other hand holding his hood as low as it can get without covering his eyes. The back of his neck’s getting sweaty. Lovely.

He ain’t hot or young enough to get groped and he’s too scary for anyone to spoil for a fight, so they make it through to the far side of the dancefloor with relatively little carnage. Yondu scans for Peter, can’t find him, and halts, Kraglin stumbling into his back.

“Alright. We good. H-hey, what’re ya…” Kraglin, making the most of their position, wraps skinny arms around his waist and brushes the line of their bodies together, fingers digging into Yondu’s stomach and crotch against his ass. Stiffening automatically at the contact, Yondu freezes – then laughs and pushes back. “What’chu up to?” he asks over his shoulder. The hood’s irritating; it blocks off his peripherals and when he turns his head all he sees is the soft black fabric. But Kraglin’s smile’s right by his ear, promisingly mischievous.

“If he does catch us, he’s gonna be too embarrassed to come near,” he says. The music’s so loud he has to shout to be heard, even at this proximity, and it still sounds like a scratchy whisper. Yondu relaxes, letting the beat settle into his bones. It’s the sort of music Peter hates – all bass and throb, a belting earworm of an instrumental refrain and no lyrics to speak of. He ain’t much of a connoisseur, but if Peter dislikes it, that’s good enough for him. Kraglin’s hand slips under the rim of his hoodie, just a little. The bony thumb and index are like brands on his skin. When Kraglin pauses there, Yondu grabs his wrist and shoves it up further, the hoodie riding over a sliver of blue hip. Kraglin’s fingers quest out the line of his pouch and drag along it slow enough to make him shiver. Then up a bit further, tugging on the strap of his arrow harness.

“Course you’d bring this,” he teases. Draws the hood to one side – Yondu tries to dissuade him with a shake, but loses all will when teeth tighten around the tendon in his neck. It’s okay. His implant’s covered – that’s what’s important. “S’kinda hot actually,” Kraglin says. He gives the strap a little snap, making Yondu jerk. “Definitely hot.”

He’s still moving against him, slow, not quite at beat with the song. Yondu makes a frustrated noise and reaches behind to feel for Kraglin’s belt, hooking it and reeling him in as tight as he can. This… ain’t bad. Ain’t bad at all. Sure, there’s folks all around, but none of ‘em know who he is. For the first time in what feels like forever, Yondu can _relax_.

Music pulses in his ears. He angles himself back, and knows he’s rubbing Kraglin’s cock from the way the hand under his hoodie suddenly tightens, dragging on the strap and pulling him forwards. He strains against it – easy, really; Kraglin might be an expert spine-extractor but he’s got the proportionate upper body strength of an eight-year-old. The pressure where the leather bites in is almost an ache: tight and perfect. Kraglin sandwiches their torsos together, zips and buckles rubbing Yondu’s broad back, and smirks when he feels the arrow at its centre.

“Hot,” he decrees again. Sneakily worms his hand up further, and pinches his nipple.

Yondu drops his head back on Kraglin’s shoulder, lips parted, and _feels_ it. The growing hardness in Kraglin’s pants where he’s grinding against his ass. The sharp jolts as Kraglin rolls the blue nubbin and scratches his chest with his dirty nails. The slick heat of suction over the bite mark that’ll be very noticeable in the morning (and dammit, he’s starting to think Kraglin just likes the look of him in a scarf).

Kraglin extracts himself long enough for Yondu to catch his breath. He’s surprised that he’s so dazed. He’s only had two drinks, for fuck’s sake – but the club’s dark and smoky and he can barely make out the features of the person in front of him, and for once he ain’t on edge about being recognised. Kraglin’s here and Kraglin’s close and Kraglin’s – _oh_ – sliding his hands down his front, past his crotch (to which Yondu manages a garbled protest) and between his thighs, pulling them firmly apart.

He could stop him. It’d be easy. It’d be easy, and no fun at all.

Yondu arches his spine and rocks back into Kraglin’s ruts, feeling his first mate’s cock full and hard through the sweat-slicked leather that separates their skin. He’s warming up too – Kraglin ain’t even touched his dick, but he feels like it wouldn’t take more than a stroke to get him standing tall.

It’s hot. It’s ridiculously hot, and not just in terms of the turn-on; he can feel the sweat collect in his collar bones, pooling on the straps of his arrow holster and under his belt. The blood in Yondu’s head vibrates to the beat of the music. It’s close to the surface, capillaries blown as wide as his pupils. He’s drunk on atmosphere alone. And sure, he wants Kraglin on him. In him, around him; whatever. But this is good too; this shadowed slide of material and heated skin that’s the closest they can get to fucking in a public place.

“I wanna make ya moan, sir,” mutters Kraglin in his ear, breath humid and feverish. “I wanna make ya _scream_ , so everyone can hear ya over the music…”

“If we get arrested s’your fault,” Yondu gasps, which Kraglin of course takes as license to do whatever he wants.

It’s almost black. With the strobing lights and pounding music Yondu’s senses are too overwhelmed to make much sense of the folks around him. But he knows there’s plenty out there with better night-vision than him, so when Kraglin unzips his pants an inch and slips his fingers in, Yondu shakes him off with a growl. “Yeah, ya really _will_ get us arrested if ya jerk me off in a Nova club.”

Kraglin hums, but doesn’t protest. “I was wonderin’ if I could fuck ya without anyone noticing, actually.” And that’s… fucking dumb. Fucking dumb, and all kinds of hot. Yondu snorts at him.

“You ain’t serious. They’ll have cameras in here, and shit.”

Kraglin’s blink is somehow wicked and placid at the same time. Yondu curses himself for not saying no straight away, because if he gives an inch of leeway Kraglin’s liable to take the whole fucking lightyear. Sure enough, the hand returns, squeezing his dick through his pants. It holds him tight against Kraglin’s own. “Then let’s get ya t’the bathroom,” he says. Presses with the heel of his palm, rubs in a confident circle as his hips grind. Yondu locks his knees so his legs don’t tremble.

“Good plan,” he says shortly. His voice is almost level. Kraglin, the bastard, sees right through him. He grins as he sucks on the other side of his neck.

“You’re hella turned on right now, aren’t ya?”

Yondu manages to snort. It’s hard to sound disparaging when Kraglin kneads his cock, and he can already feel precum sticking to the inside of the leather, so he settles for teasing instead: “And I ain’t gonna get it up twice in one night, so make the most of it!”

From the groaning rumble in Kraglin’s chest, the one that travels through them both, his first mate intends to. “Let’s go already, sir, let’s go…” He’s muttering in Yondu’s ear all the way to the bathroom; they shuffle through the crowd, treading on a coupla toes but not receiving anything worse than dirty looks. One guy tries to pull down Yondu’s hood; he shoulders him roughly away, and drags Kraglin forwards before the fella can retaliate. He only realises just how hot and sweaty they’ve gotten when they spill into the bathroom, stumbling over each other, and get hit by a blast of cool refrigerated air. It’s surprisingly quiet in here – ain’t even a queue. Yondu pulls Kraglin to the furthest cubicle, ignoring the stares as they both pile in, then drops his pants as soon as the lock snicks on. Kraglin raises his eyebrows.

“There’s a corps officer,” Yondu grunts in explanation, unzipping his boots. “Comes in every half hour or so, checks for dealers – so if ya wanna get off in that time…” He yanks his pants off and kicks the toilet shut – they actually have lids here; _swanky_ – then uses it as a step to hop up on the sink-shelf behind. He pulls Kraglin in with his ankles. “C’mon, get it out.”

But while Kraglin lets himself be reeled, Yondu locking his legs around his waist as soon as he’s close, he doesn’t unzip straightaway. Instead, he wastes a moment pushing Yondu’s hood back, thumbing the spit-slick lovebites on his throat. Yondu snaps at his fingers impatiently.

“You got me hard, you deal with it!” He tilts his hips in demand. And… well, Kraglin’s a clever blighter who can wind him up like no one else, but he ain’t gonna disobey a direct order.

“Alright,” he breathes. Unbuckles his belt. Slides his pants down, all the way down, boots off too. Yondu nods in approval; tight space like this, they don’t need any more restraints than the ones provided by the walls. Then Kraglin plants his bare foot on the loo cover, hitches Yondu’s knee up over his leg and pushes him so he’s laying out on his back, as flat as he can get with the wall putting a crimp in his neck. The arrowtip digs between his vertebrae. “You alright?”

Yondu wriggles; shrugs. “Ain’t no waterbed, but I’m good.”

His hoodie’s worked up to his armpits. When Kraglin kisses his chest, interspersing bites, soft suckles, and snaps of the arrow harness, Yondu doesn’t have the heart to slap him off. His nipples each get ringed with angry tooth prints; Kraglin’s fangs ain’t the largest, but they’re sharp. He could probably bite them off if he tried (the danger of which really oughta make getting blowjobs off him less appealing). Kraglin backs off, just an inch, and admires his handiwork. “Good,” he repeats, grinning dopily. “That’s good.” Yondu could roll his eyes.

“S’what I just said – look, you got any lube? I left mine in my pants.”

Kraglin sighs, reaching into his jacket. “Right here boss.”

“Awesome. Uh – you wanna do it, or shall I -?”

He shouldn’t’ve offered. Kraglin’s got this terrible tendency to eke out foreplay. While Yondu can happily tease him for hours when their positions are reversed, he never wants to focus too much on what he’s doing when he’s on the receiving end, other than ‘that feels good’, ‘that feels bad’, and ‘wow, prostate’. But for once, Kraglin picks up on his urgency. He squeezes out a hearty dollop and doesn’t bother to warm it up before diving in, sliding wet fingers under Yondu’s balls and down his perineum before dipping them inside. It’s cold, it’s fast, it’s uncomfortable – but Yondu’s not looking to be romanced right now, and only spreads his legs wider.

“You wanna get fucked hard?” Kraglin says, stooped over him with four fingers crooked inside. He rubs Yondu’s inner walls, stretching and flexing, opening him up so he can ram in as hard and fast as he likes from the get-go. “You want bruises?”

Fuck, he wants bruises.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Yondu knocks the heel of the foot not dangling off Kraglin’s bent leg into the man’s kidneys. “Show me whatcha got. I wanna be biting my fuckin’ fist, you get me?”

Kraglin does. Kraglin definitely does.

Yondu bites his fist, and his arm, and Kraglin’s shoulder; and still feels like he’s drowning out the DJ. He’s boneless before he even comes, feeling the fuck through to his toes. He’s resonating with it. The rhythm of Kraglin’s hips and the smack of their skin becomes a clubhouse beat of its own. When his cock throbs and spills he’s almost too far gone to notice. Kraglin keeps going though. He powers through Yondu’s orgasm until he’s twitching at the sensitivity, face-scrunched and feet limp. It’s relentless, hammering him hard against the wall – which is solid, thankfully; when Yondu slams it there’s only a clunk rather than a hollow thud. The sound’s overwhelming nevertheless, squelchy and carnal. Panting breath stirs humid air. The nails scraping his implant screech as if they’re being drawn down a chalkboard. When Yondu starts helplessly whining every time Kraglin’s dick slams home, noise sitting high in his throat, those nails curl, stroking instead, and Yondu grabs his bony shoulders for stability as Kraglin’s pace shudders.

His belly’s sticky with spunk and sweat. Kraglin dabbles through it and smears messy fingers round his mouth. Yondu has to catch them and suck them in to avoid getting a jizz-coated poke in the eye. He thinks that’s what spurs Kraglin into coming, as he shuts his eyes and concentrates on working those fingers over. His tongue quests out every callus and graze, every ragged nail-edge, tasting the grit and hair-gel caught underneath them. He gasps noisily as Kraglin buries his face in his neck and shoots hot thick spurts into his belly.

Kraglin has to help him buckle his trousers after. He’s juddery and nerveless and his legs won’t stop shaking. For some reason, he can’t stop smiling either. When Kraglin tips his head and – very, very tentatively – presses their closed mouths together, Yondu doesn’t jerk away. Just stays soft and lax and compliant as a tongue whispers along the seam of his lips.

He doesn’t open his mouth. But he doesn’t back off either. Eventually, Kraglin cups his skull and transitions into a seamless nuzzle. He rubs his nose in the crook of Yondu’s jaw, sucking his favourite hickey until it’s angry and swollen again.

“That do for a bruise?” he whispers. Yondu nods. He leans on him, just a little; arms around Kraglin’s ribs and head tucked beneath his chin.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

The hand on his nape squeezes in acknowledgment. “Anytime, captain. C’mon.”

Really, Yondu should protest. Clean himself up a bit first, at least. He’s slimy and slippery and the jizz smearing his ass feels almost as gross as the dried precum inside his pants. But… there’s something hot about it. Feeling Kraglin’s come slipping out of him as he walks, loose hole hidden under the worn leather…

Kraglin guesses his thoughts; he worms his hand down the back of Yondu’s pants and rubs the tender opening, not enough to hurt but enough to coax out a sticky string. “Wish I had a plug on me, captain,” he says dreamily. “Could keep ya full for longer.” Yondu just presses his forehead on Kraglin’s and smiles.

“Next time,” he promises.

***

Peter sits alone when they return to the bar, gloomily stirring a drink. He looks up when Kraglin pats him on the shoulder, part consoling, mostly mocking, and exudes a sigh more mournful than any Yondu’s heard uttered on a deathbed.

“No luck?” he asks. The bright red handprint on Peter’s cheek attests. He snaps when Yondu pokes it, slapping at his hand and missing by a good inch.

“Quit it –“

Yondu sniggers. “Our lil’ _Star-Lord_ don’t know how to pull the ladies. An’ he’s gonna be feelin’ this one tomorrow. What d’ya think, Krags? Time we took him home?”

“I don’t wanna! I wanna… I wanna stay here! I wanna have _fun_.”

“Yeah,” comes Kraglin’s straight-faced assessment. “Looks like yer havin’ a bunch of it.”

Peter, face shiny from warmth, alcohol, and the misery of rejection, makes a passable attempt at standing. A passable attempt, only if he were being examined in competition with a recently cured paraplegic. Yondu inserts himself under his left arm before he can collapse, leaving Kraglin to deal with the right – and be sloshed by whatever Quill’s been knocking back. The glass threatens to drop, held only by Peter’s drink-clumsy fingers. Kraglin relocates it to safety. Peter groans as dizziness sets in, veering sharply floorwards. Yondu steers him to walk, Peter lurching pendulum-like between captain and first mate.

“Ain’t that a surprise?” Kraglin says, as they pass moon-eyed girl. She's flirting with the Nova guard on bathroom duty, who’s got a fun and sticky surprise waiting for him in cubicle three. “Guess outlaws ain’t her type after all.” Yondu wishes her luck – not only because she’s inadvertently provided them the distraction to escape. Anyone who’s suffered through Quill’s come-ons deserves a fuck at least as decent as the one he’s still staggering from.

Quill, dense as ever, forces a wobbly smile. He shoots her a ‘call me’ sign, but is too busy ogling the next girl along to see her middle-fingered reply.

“He’s an idiot,” he tells Kraglin, as they disengage the camo-cell disguising their M-ship as one of the many Nova models mag-locked to the dock. “But he’s our idiot.”

Kraglin hums, fastening Quill’s belt for him when he attempts to liquefy off the seat. He rests his hand on his captain's thigh, giving it a brief squeeze, and dials in the sequence for take-off.

**Author's Note:**

> **If any phrases ring similar, I cannibalized some snappy one-liners from this fic (thinking I'd never finish/publish it) to fit into other works. But I can't remember what or where. Hopefully you can't either!**
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> **Drop me a comment if you enjoyed; they mean the world.**
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> ****


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